Claiming the sill

Stirred early atop the bookcase. Shadows thinning down below. Needed a wider perimeter. Slid down the curtain fabric, gripping the woven cord tight until my soles struck the hard wooden windowsill. In the way sat a thick, ridged glass jar holding dried stones and twigs. Heavy glass. Dense ballast. Perfect. Dug both hands into the cool glass surface. Planted my feet against the grain. Shoved with everything until it ground across the paint with a dry scrape, yielding half an inch, then stopped solid. Leaned against it. Kept watch through the glass.